I love art. For as long as I can remember, art has been my life. Death has been my life. The way that dead skin feels under my hand, and the way it shows up on paper is amazing.

And Alice was part of my life. A beautiful girl with blue ribbons in her blonde hair and an oval face to die for; she was beautiful.

I met Alice at an opera. She was younger than me, but her tastes more mature. Unlike me, she was attending alone. I had been dragged by my friends who insisted that I must become more social, or I would never be able to marry into a rich family. My reply to that was that I was from a rich family, as they often forgot.

Alice had a box next to ours, and I spent a good deal of the opera watching her. She crossed her legs at the ankles and watched the singers with hand held binoculars. I was captivated by her. She was much younger than I, perhaps fifteen, maybe sixteen.

I was not put off by that, however. When the opera was over, I ignored my splitting headache (lovingly given to me by the soprano) and introduced myself. “It seems a bit odd,” I spoke with a bow, “For a young lady to come to an opera alone.”

She curtsied, “Sometimes, it is necessary for one’s sanity.”

I laughed, “How one could find sanity at an opera escapes me.”

She smiled and blushed, “My name is Alice Harper.”

The next morning, Marie woke me with her loud voice, “Master Orland, there’s a letter for you.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, “Who’s it from?”

“A Miss Harper…”

I snatched the letter out of her hands and read it. “Oh bugger!” I declared, jumping out of bed, “She wants me to have tea with her in two hours…” I looked desperately at Marie, “What do I wear?”

“Ach, my lad,” she laughed at me, “I don’ pretend to know what impresses ladies these days. But I wouldn’t be wearing my best on a first date.”

I sighed, “Very well then. And ready my horse, I don’t want to take the carriage.”

Alice’s house was very large, and on expansive ground. I dismounted my horse and one of the servants took it for me, another leading me through the grounds into the rose garden.

“Mr. Orland!” Alice stood up and curtsied, “It’s lovely to see you.”

I bowed, “As you, Miss Harper.”

After that, we spent many days together. She was a charming lady, who was to inherit three million francs. Her father owned a chain of banks, and her mother invested in the stock market. She had no problems.

But she refused to let me draw her. She marveled over my works, but refused to be a subject.

I discussed this with Lucien at the morgue one day, “It frustrates me,” I sighed, “Such beauty should be immortal.”

Lucien smiled and touched the face of the body he was preparing, “The only beauty you have immortalized is the beauty of death. You only draw dead things, and flowers. Never have I seen you draw a living human.”

“Now,” I argued, “I’ve drawn you…”

He smiled, “That doesn’t count. I’m part of death. I prepare bodies, like Lucille Villiefort here…” he bent down and kissed the lips of the body as though it were his lover, “Let’s be honest, the only way you’ll get to draw your woman is if she is dead.”

That was perfect. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. An accident must be put in place so that I may have what I wanted.

Alice and I were riding in a busy part of Paris when I found my opportunity. As carriages past us quickly, Alice would pull her horse within arms reach of me. When one particularly fast carriage was about to pass, I reached over and pushed her. She tumbled from her horse with a scream that was silenced and followed by a crunching.

I gave a dreadfully inhuman scream that was both real and false. Part of me was overjoyed, but part of me was appalled.

Two days later I was drawing her.

I loved Alice, but I love art. And between art and Alice, there could be competition. Her face was beautiful and still, and I drew her. An immortal beauty would come from her. And when I was done, I would let Lucien have his way. I shuddered slightly at the thought of him forcing his tongue into her cold mouth, of caressing her broken frame… I shook my head.

Her pictures are the most beautiful ones I have ever drawn. One of them went to her family with a sympathy note, sorry that she had fallen. The only person who had seen me was a crazy woman that no body believed.

Her other picture hangs on the wall in the main hallway to the dining room in my estate.

Art or Alice, God had put me in a terrible spot, but… Paris is a city of artists.